Artistry
by Estepheia
Summary: Rumors of another souled vampire lure Angel back to Sunnydale. Set in an alternate S7 hurtcomfort, angst, friendship.


RATING: R for dark themes, violence, and torture (not really more gruesome than what was seen on the show)

SUMMARY: Angel's life is riddled with holes...

SPOILERS: Set shortly after BtVS 7x02 i Beneath You /i , but in a wish-verse in which Connor wished he had never been born.

**Artistry**

The school may be brand-new but it smells old. As he wanders along the deserted corridors, past barely scratched lockers and notice boards full of band camp posters and course announcements, Angel picks up a dry, leathery odour that doesn't belong. It's subtle, almost imperceptible underneath all the cleaning chemicals and lingering teenager hormones. Books, old musty tomes wrapped in human hide, that's what the smell reminds him of. It raises his hackles.

He finds the right door and slowly makes his way down the stairs and into the dark, labyrinthine basement. The smell of dry parchment is stronger here, inexplicably layered with an odor of grilled meat.

The first blow catches him by surprise, maybe because Angel expected a vampire and not some teenage zombies in nineties outfits. Angel staggers, then whirls around, kicking and punching, picking up one black-haired assailant and hurling her against a blond zombie who looks more than a little like Buffy. Both bodies crash into a pile of old desks, but they slowly scramble to their feet, neither impressed nor impaired.

Meanwhile, Angel is grappling with the third animated corpse, a pasty looking boy. The ruby and amber of his Razorbacks jacket are drab as though the colors bled dry when he did.

Angel tries to yank off the zombie's head. Leathery skin crumbles and rubbery tendons rupture in his grip, but the thing's spine seems impervious to force. This is no ordinary zombie. The other two attack him again and suddenly Angel has three dead bodies to fend off.

"Go away," the black-haired zombie tells him, then drives her yellowed teeth into Angel's shoulder, through the leather of his $800 jacket, with more strength than human jaws have any right to have. Angel howls in pain and tries to shake her off.

"Leave," Razorback-boy intones. "This is not your playing field." Every word is accompanied by a painful blow against Angel's back.

"Who says I'm playing?" Angel lands a few blows that would fell a graxlar beast, but the walking, talking corpses barely reel. At least he manages to pry the black-haired corpse off his shoulder.

The blond zombie with the mini-skirt picks up a broken drawer from one of the splintered desks and snaps off bits of wood, fashioning a crude, jagged dagger. "You can't destroy us, vampire," she says, obliterating all similarity to Buffy with the pompousness of the remark.

"How about tying you into knots? Does that work?" Angel retorts, with more confidence than he feels. There has to be a way to kill these things. If they're not zombies, then what are they?

"They're spirits. Bound by a talisman Already told her," a hollow-sounding yet familiar voice speaks up. "Least I think I did."

This can't be. Not him. Not Spike.

But a white shape emerges, cutting the darkness in two.

"Spike?" Angel squints, dumbfounded.

Spike's a mess. Half naked, barefoot, wearing nothing but grimy, unbuttoned pants. His bare chest and arms are filthy, covered in soot or dirt. He's all angles, and black and white planes—like a woodcut in an old book.

Before he can take everything in, a fist pounds into Angel's kidneys from behind, bringing him to his knees. He collapses with a grunt of pain, narrowly avoiding a sharp piece of wood aimed at his heart. The wooden dagger strikes Angel's shoulder with enough force, to tear the leather of his coat and drive splinters into his flesh.

"Do you have any idea how much a jacket like this costs?" Angel catches the hand as it pulls back for another blow. He can't pry the wood from the zombie's fingers, but he can snap off the weapon's deadly tip, rendering it useless, and that's what he does. A few kicks and blows give Angel more room to maneuver—and think.

A talisman? If what Spike said is true, the object that binds these spirits can't be far. These things never have a wide range.

"Where is it?" Angel croaks, trying to shake off the male zombie who is trying to strangle him. He breaks the corpse's hold and hurls it away, then turns, determined to pummel the answer out of the other vampire, if need be. "Spike! Where?"

That's when Angel gets his first good look at Spike: Hair unkempt, eyes distant and blood-shot—has Spike been crying? But that's not what makes Angel inhale through gritted teeth. The black marks that cover Spike's chest and shoulders, his arms, even part of his face, they're not dirt, they're burns, large patches of blistered and charred skin.

Angel's stomach clenches into a tight lump, and for a second he tastes bile in his mouth.

Spike just stands there, slouched, arms dangling, head bent. Spent, his fire snuffed.

Angel kicks an approaching zombie away. "Where is it, Spike?"

"Angelus?" Spike slowly lifts his gaze as though he's waking from a dream. "Got a slip? You need a slip."

"The talisman!"

"What, you mean this?" Spike asks and reaches into the back pocket of his pants. When he opens his hand there's a small bundle lying on his palm, made of bone, and herbs, tied together with a strand of what looks like human hair.

Reaching for the talisman is a mistake. The zombies jump Angel again, and this time they succeed in upsetting his balance. Angel goes down in a flurry of flailing arms and legs. When the dust settles, Angel finds himself immobilized, stretched out between two pallid dead teenagers with empty eyes. One zombie is holding on to Angel's wrists the other has his ankles in a vice-like grip. Angel also finds himself straddled by a half-naked vampire who smells medium rare.

"You're bleeding," Spike says, staring at Angel's injured shoulder with an expression of ravenous hunger.

Angel squirms and bucks.

Spike leans forward and pushes Angel's shoulders down with both hands, pinning him to the ground. His movements cause the barely healed skin on Spike's arms and shoulders to tear like thin paper. Blood seeps sluggishly out of the cracks. When was the last time Spike fed?

"Spike, what's going on?"

Anguish washes over Spike's face. "This is a school, mate. We're not supposed to brawl."

And when did Spike lose his marbles?

There's a sound of splintering wood and then the blond zombie appears in Angel's field of vision. She—it stands behind Spike's back, raising a new improvised stake.

"You have to destroy it. Spike!" Angel tenses, gearing up for another effort to get free. Maybe if he can keep Spike talking....

"We're going to get caned," Spike mutters haltingly. He's shaking his head as though he's trying to dislodge the words. "First you, then me. She said so."

"Who did?"

"I did," Darla says and steps into view. The blonde zombie lowers her stake and moves aside, out of Angel's line of sight. Spike seems to shrink.

"Darla?" Angel gasps.

A moment later pain explodes inside his skull and the world plunges into darkness.

When Angel wakes he's no longer lying on the floor, but hanging upright from chafing leather straps that tie his wrists, upper arms and legs to the spokes of a big wooden wheel. The wheel is propped up against a tripod that looks like a huge easel. Angel's jacket and shirt are gone and so are his socks and shoes. Judging by the throbbing pain in his head and shoulder, he can't have been out long.

He can tell from the smell of parchment and earth, that he's still inside the school basement, but in a different room. Shadows move across the walls, distorted by pipes and air-vents, thrown there by a single yellow light source somewhere behind him.

He can hear sounds of digging, of shovels biting into sand.

Angel strains against his bonds but the leather is stronger than it looks, and the wooden spokes creak but they don't break.

"He's awake," Spike's voice sounds and a moment later he and Darla come up to where Angel can see them.

Darla is as beautiful as ever. Blond curls coiffed into calculated disarray, porcelain skin with a mere hint of a false blush, ruby lipstick. A blood red silk cocktail dress hugs her curves. It's just transparent enough to tease, stylish, expensive, obviously custom made. Red looks good on Darla—often cheap on others, always classy on her.

Angel had pictured her in South America or Europe, buying expensive Italian shoes by the cartload, killing jewelers for their wares, and cutting a swath through a host of sophisticated admirers, with the odd priest or nun for dessert. What is Darla doing in a dank school basement on top of the Hellmouth?

"My darling boy," Darla coos, "the prettiest I ever made, and the most vile. Also my biggest disappointment."

Angel scowls. "What's going on? Is Dru here too?"

"They're all here." Spike's voice is toneless, distant, as though originating from the bottom of a deep well. Angel hates to admit it, because more than anything else Spike's a pain in the butt, but hearing him speak like that is too wrong for words.

"Drusilla's here... in a manner of speaking." Darla smiles radiantly. "Looks like we're having "a right family reunion. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have baked a cake."

"And I would have brought a stake. Oops, I did."

His words elicit a gasp of mock surprise. "What, no flowers for me, for your soulmate of over two centuries?" Darla laughs and turns towards Spike. "Do you want to know why he's here? Don't think, even for a minute, that he came here for you, William. He didn't even know you were back in Sunnydale."

Spike lifts his head and for a second he meets Angel's gaze.

Darla's right, he didn't come here expecting to find Spike, but right now, with Spike searching his face for god knows what, Angel wishes for a fleeting moment that he could in all honesty contradict her.

"I came because I heard a rumor about another vampire with a soul," Angel admits and adds more softly: "Looks like I found him."

"He came because he thought he might find a way to make his soul permanent," Darla states, but then she reconsiders. "Or were you thinking about putting such a disgusting thing into me?"

Angel stays silent but apparently his mien gives his true motive away, for Darla's smile becomes more cutting.

"Isn't that romantic? Always taking the high road. After all that has happened, he still wants to save me. A body count shared is a body count halved, is that it?"

If Spike is listening to the exchange he gives no sign of it. He stands, silent and attentive like a well-trained doberman waiting for his master to snap his fingers. Actually no, that's not true, not like a well-trained dog but like one that has had every ounce of resistance and free will beaten out of him.

"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing. Believe me, I didn't have to. Why don't you tell him, William? Tell Daddy what you did."

"No! Don't make me. Please." Spike squirms, and slings his arms around his shoulders, hugging himself, looking like a frightened tortoise that lost its shell. Angel has never seen him so small.

Angel remembers only too well: the searing pain as guilt and self-loathing fused with every cell of his body, back then, when he got his soul. But right now Angel doesn't care about what Spike did or didn't do, and how he feels. All he cares about is finding a way out. Especially since the digging sounds behind his back have stopped. "Spike, listen, I know what you're going through—"

Spike's laughter cuts him off, bleak and just this side of hysteria.

"Come on, William, it is time," Darla interrupts. "Show us what you've learnt."

Spike disappears out of sight, but is back moments later with a canvas bundle. He goes down on his knees and unrolls it. It's a tool roll that holds about a dozen gleaming objects, knives, sharp blades with wicked curves, hooks, scalpels, spikes and a mallet.

"Remember Florence?" Darla asks sweetly.

It was in Florence that Angelus leant to study his victims the way a sculptor studies a block of alabaster, searching for cracks and fault lines, for bruises in the crystaline structure.

Alabaster bruises easily. A too direct blow at too steep an angle will leave a dark blemish of crushed crystals that's difficult to file out.

Not that Angelus ever tried his hand at sculpting stone. It's second hand knowledge, picked up from a promising Arts student Darla hired to capture her darling boy in stone. While bringing La Mazza down on Lo Scalpello und La Gradina in long even strokes, flicking chips of stone off with a practiced twist of his chisel, the young Florentine never stopped yammering about his art.

About how wetting the stone helps locate the fault lines in it, the changes of texture that mark its weaknesses.

When the sculpture was finished, Angelus brought out his tools, placing scalpels, chisels and drills on a little side table, one by one, with the same loving care the young Florentine had bestowed on the tools of his trade. As he gazed down upon the struggling young man, Angelus knew exactly where to place the first cut. The sculptor had cracked long before Angelus peeled back his skin, at precisely the moment when La Mazza swung down on his deft and precious hands.

Angel screams when the hammer drives the first nail through his wrist and into the wood of the wheel.

"You gotta drive the nails through the wrists," Spike tells him and turns to pick up a second nail. The smooth and unblemished skin of his back is pale like alabaster. "The palm's not strong enough to hold a man's weight. It's one of the first things you taught me. See, I remember. I remember everything."

"Spike...William, listen, you don't have to do what she tells you," Angel talks urgently, grimacing with pain. "If you really have a soul then you know that this is wrong. You have to stop this."

"You're not real," Spike positions the nail. "If you were, you wouldn't be here."

Darla smiles and crosses her arms in front of her chest, a rapt audience, if ever there was one.

"Spike please—"

The hammer comes down. Angel howls in pain. Blood splatters, painting an impressionist streak of crimson across Spike's face. Dazed, Spike wipes his cheek, then stares at the bright smear on the back of his hand before licking it almost absentmindedly.

The effect is remarkable. Blue eyes widen. Slack-jawed, Spike sways on his feet, literally reeling with shock.

Angel seizes on the change. "Spike, cut me loose."

Darla's lips curve into a perfect magazine cover smile. "Our William is an apt pupil. What makes you think he would let go an opportunity to show you his artistry, now that he has you at his mercy?"

Angel ignores her. This isn't the Darla he knows. Something is different—he can't put a finger on it, but it means there's no point in trying to reason with her. There's no weakness he could exploit. Instead he tries to hold Spike's gaze. "You can taste it, can't you? I'm real, and I'm here. And I'm not going away."

"She said she could make it stop," Spike whispers, horror flickering in his eyes, but he drops the mallet and picks up a knife instead, a medical scalpel. "Cut out all the voices in my head, cut out the spark, make me what I was."

Darla is still smiling.

Spike steps nearer and leans forward. When he speaks Angel can feel his lips brush his cheek.

"Make me what I was...." The tip of the blade slices into Angel's chest, right above the heart.

"Spike—"

"Help me?" Spike moves fast, one cut, two cuts, and the leather straps fall to the floor. A moment later Spike grips the head of the first nail and pulls with all his might. Muscles bulge, blackened skin cracks, and with a sound that's almost a sigh it comes loose.

Immediately Angel tries to pull out the other nail, while Spike moves to intercept one of the approaching zombies.

"No! What are you doing?" Darla shrieks, "William, stop it!" Suddenly her voice changes, and her blond hair turns black. Her dress changes too, from bright red to dark green. "Tut-tut-tut, Spike, you mustn't make Mummy cross," Drusilla sing-songs.

"You!" Angel barks.

Me," Drusilla says, and morphs into a reproachful Mrs Summers. "You should have stayed in L.A., Angel."

A zombie shuffles into view and Angel redoubles his efforts. When the nail comes loose he hurls it at Joyce. Somehow he's not surprised when the nail sails through her.

Angel throws himself at the walking corpse, although every punch sends sparks of pain through him. Fighting with punctured wrists? Not the kind of thing you pick up as a hobby.

"Spike, the talis—"

Angel's punch hits thin air because the black-haired zombie suddenly winks out of existence. A quick glance confirms, the other two are gone as well.

"It ain't over until the fat lady sings," Joyce says, as she morphs into a white-haired elderly lady in Victorian garb, And then she does indeed—sing.

A growl is warning enough—Angel turns in time to dodge a wild swing. Spike is coming at him, eyes burning golden, fangs flashing,

The fight doesn't last long. They're both battered and bruised, but Spike is also half starved. He doesn't stand a chance against Angel. A few punches later, Angel has thrown him to the ground and is stradling him, holding down his wrists with both hands and pinning him down with his weight. Beneath him Spike is panting with pain and effort. Then the fangs retreat and all that remains is a sobbing, broken man who turns his head away so Angel can't see him weep.

"You look like a mess," Angel mutters helplessly, wondering if it's safe to let go.

Spike doesn't look like he has enough strength left to even get up, let alone fight. His shoulders are racked by silent sobs. Angel averts his gaze.

The elderly lady is gone. But there's a hole in the ground a few yards away, like a big mystic manhole cover. Definitely something Wesley and Giles should investigate, but not now.

So, Spike has a soul now. Did he get cursed as well or did he buy it on ebay? Knowing Spike he probably tripped over it.

"Get off me, you fat ponce," Spike mutters, still sounding shaken.

There it is again, Spike's favorite insult. Angel sighs, but releases Spike's wrists. At least Spike sounds like himself again.

Feeling old and worn, Angel clambers to his feet. Eyes trained on the metal seal in the floor, he gives Spike a moment to furtively wipe his face, before holding out his hand.

After a moment of hesitation Spike allows Angel to hoist him to his feet.

They regard each other warily. They're both filthy and bleeding, and bone-weary.

Angel looks around. His $200 shoes and the rest of his clothes are nowhere to be seen. He could of course search for them, but Spike looks like he can barely stand on his feet.

"Can you manage the stairs on your own or do I have to carry you?" Angel asks, sounding very put upon, almost grouchy.

Spike slowly lifts his head. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On where I'm going?" It sounds like a question.

A noticable pause hangs in the air.

Sometimes it seems to Angel as though his life is riddled with people-shaped holes: His sister Kathy, his father, Darla, Drusilla, Buffy, and more recently Doyle. Some are festering wounds, others are tidy surgical scars, but they all ache. As for Spike, Angel likes to think of him as a zit, or an itch you can't scratch, more than anything else, but he's still family, for better or for worse.

He's not going to leave Spike here all by himself. Angel takes a deep, exasperated breath. "L.A.?"

The ghost of a smile appears on Spike's face. "Lead the way."

END


End file.
